


"True Love's Kiss"

by rhien



Series: Carry On Simon Universe [1]
Category: Fangirl - Rainbow Rowell, Simon Snow series - Gemma T. Leslie
Genre: Fangirl-era canon, M/M, SnowBaz, cross posted from my fanfixx account
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-03
Updated: 2014-01-03
Packaged: 2018-01-07 03:25:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 11,931
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1114914
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rhien/pseuds/rhien
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Simon is hit by a living death curse, it initiates a conversation Baz isn't sure he's ready for.<br/>Snowbaz. (3)<br/>This scene comes before the last one (Sleepless) and the day after the Simon and Baz and Agatha in the forest scene in Carry On, Simon - page 206 (U.S. edition, 217 U.K. edition; right before chapter 18) in Fangirl, by Rainbow Rowell.<br/>** Chapters 2 - 4 are/will be bonus snippets.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

 

Their attackers had fled, and Baz scrambled to Simon’s side, dropping to his knees among the leaves and mould of the forest floor.

Simon lay completely still, unnaturally still. He was always fidgeting, tapping a foot, pacing their room, running a hand through his hair – and however much Baz had always threatened to curse his feet into the floorboards just to get him to sit still for a minute, this was chilling.

Carefully, Baz touched Simon’s shoulder. “Snow?” Was he injured? He shook him a little harder. “Simon?” He leaned close and listened. He could feel just the barest stirring of breath, the faintest trace of a heartbeat, the beats so far apart that if he didn’t have vampire senses, he might have thought…

A living death spell? Baz had heard of these, but there were a dozen variations, and he couldn’t _think_ …. Not with Simon lying there, motionless, his skin cool and sickly pale in the fading light, eyes closed, no wide Simon grin—looking awful. Looking… dead. Baz could barely keep any composure at all. He squeezed Simon’s hand (when had he taken his hand? yet there it was, held tight in the two of his own) and tried to fight back the panicked keening that threatened to escape from his throat.

“You’re _not_ dead,” Baz whispered. “He’s not, he’s _not_ , get a _grip_ , Pitch.” He didn’t know who he was trying to talk to; he barely knew what he was saying. The silence, Simon’s silence, was too awful to leave alone.

Baz shook himself. He could carry him to the fortress. Maybe. He was still a couple of inches taller than Simon, but Simon was a good twenty, maybe even thirty pounds of muscle heavier. Which might have been all right… but Baz knew perfectly well that total deadweight was different than Simon wounded and limping, or even than Simon unconscious. And Baz was exhausted. (And _thirsty,_ still, but there was no time to think about that now.) He had hardly slept the night before, after Simon had interfered, had saved Agatha and brought him in from the forest. He had been up since dawn, and then this, yet another battle—he didn’t know how Simon did it, all these years. It was so much more draining being the good guy, discovering and finding and inventing everything from scratch, rather than following along and merely undoing Simon’s work….

And what would be waiting for them at the castle? The Mage? With a traitorous, lying Agatha by his side, and here, suspicious, blood-smeared, widow’s-peaked Tyrannus Basilton Pitch carrying an apparently-dead Mage’s Heir? He was past caring what it would look like as far as he was concerned – they would probably lock him up immediately, before they sent him off to the Coven – but what would they do with Simon? Would anyone else even see that he wasn’t actually dead? Or would they be able to tell before Agatha finished the job? If it was even Agatha. Simon had been convinced that it wasn’t really her, that there was a glamour involved… maybe he was right. (Though of course, of _course_ he didn’t want to believe that his _girlfriend_ was evil. But Baz wasn’t dwelling on that. Certainly not now.)

If he could just wake Simon up, they might be able to sneak back into the fortress, back to the safety of the dorm, and plan what to do next. Regroup. Get some _sleep_ even. But he couldn’t sneak with unconscious Simon over his shoulder. Ugh. His muscles might be exhausted, but his brain was desperate, scurrying. There had to be _something_ , some way to wake him.

“Ah, Snow,” Baz said, brushing at some mud on Simon’s cool forehead, “why did you…? I could really use your help here. Living death curses. You’d be sure to point out all the most obvious solutions, all the ones that would never work. Process of elimination, you know.” This wasn’t really fair, but Baz didn’t care—he was suddenly angry. What right did Simon have to jump in front of him like that? What right did he have to leave Baz to fix this mess alone? It was absurd. Obviously Simon was the hero, he himself was just… and after last night.

They hadn’t even talked about last night, about what had happened, about how Simon had saved Baz from himself in the forest. (Saved possibly-evil Agatha too, but, well, no one was perfect, not even Simon Snow.) But now Simon knew, he knew for sure… and they hadn’t said a word about it yet, but Simon had still asked for his help today, help from a vampire, a _monster_. They’d walked through the forest this afternoon like it was nothing, like it didn’t make a _difference,_ like it didn’t make _all_ the difference; like Simon didn’t even care, even though he knew everything Baz had tried to hide all these years… well, everything but the most important thing, and Baz wasn’t going to be the one to bring _that_ up. Not ever. Not when it was so… impossible. Preposterous. Hopeless.

None of this is helpful, Baz told himself sternly. None of it was waking Simon. He had to try something, but he was afraid. Afraid he would make things worse. And there wasn’t a lot of leeway for worse here. He put his fingers over Simon’s mouth, feeling again for breath (it was still there, wasn’t it? just faintly? it was, it had to be). He didn’t even know exactly which spell he was trying to counteract. Living death, living death… there were many variations of this, a whole subset that involved apples, though manifestly not this one…. Baz stopped. _Oh, Bill Butler and the Golden Dawn, I am such an idiot._ The counter-spell was obvious. He shifted nervously, looking around, though of course no one was there. He looked at Simon’s pale face. He had to at least try it.

Baz pulled out his wand and touched Simon’s mouth with the tip. Quietly, he said, “ _True love’s kiss._ ” The wand end glowed briefly, and Baz waited, but nothing else happened. Baz closed his eyes. Not unexpected, but still. He leaned over, held his breath a moment, and then kissed Simon softly.

For just a moment there was nothing but the feel of Simon’s lips (a little dry, a little cool) on his own. Then Baz felt Simon’s breath, a deep gasp, and Baz sat up as fast as he could, dropping Simon’s hand that was still in his own. Simon’s eyes fluttered open, unfocused, and he said, “Baz?”

Baz could hardly breathe, he was suddenly gasping so hard, as if he’d been running, as if he would never be able to catch his breath again. Color was rushing back into Simon’s face. _It worked._ He wanted to grab Simon, to bury his face in his chest, to sing with relief—but instead he merely steadied his breathing, cocked an eyebrow and said, “Well, Snow, you’re quite the damsel in distress. All right, then?”

Simon pushed himself up on his elbows and shook his head, clearly disoriented. “Are we all right? We were fighting, and then….”

“And then you jumped in front of _me_ like an idiot,” said Baz, reprovingly, “and got hit by a curse, but I worked it out. And they’re gone, and,” he reached around Simon and pulled on his shoulders, getting him to his feet, “we had better get back into the fortress before they come back.” They were both standing now, though Simon leaned a little against Baz’s arm.

“A curse?” Simon said, one hand on his head. “I….” He trailed off, and looked at Baz with squinted eyes.

“You probably don’t remember,” Baz said, smoothly. “No need. Let’s just get inside.” Simon nodded, and they headed back, Simon a little unsteady on his feet, Baz watching him carefully, ready to catch him if he swayed.

 

###

 

Back in their room, Baz faced the wall, buttoning his striped pyjama shirt. He had taken the quickest shower of his life, hoping to be asleep before Simon returned to the room, but had forgotten to bring his pyjamas to the washroom with him. It had been at least thirty-six hours since he’d had a proper sleep, maybe longer—he was far too tired for math. Too tired for anything, really. He heard Simon come in behind him, heard the door shut, heard the creak of the mattress springs on Simon’s bed. But neither of them spoke.

 _Good,_ Baz thought. _No discussion._ At least he shouldn’t have any trouble falling sleep tonight, unlike so many other nights. There would be time for talking and planning and strategizing tomorrow morning. Or, if he was lucky, tomorrow afternoon.

But then: Simon’s voice. “Baz. Are we going to talk about this?”

Baz gave an exaggerated yawn; maybe his dear roommate would take the hint. Probably too much to ask, though. “About what?”

“About how you saved my life tonight?”

Baz said airily, “Just one more thing you owe me, Snow. Though technically you probably saved my life first. But we can stick with ‘you owe me.’ I like a nice, unbalanced scale.”

“I said,” Simon’s voice was slow and deliberate. “About _how_ you saved my life tonight.”

Baz froze. He slowly raised his eyes from his shirt-front to the glass of the window, where he could see Simon behind him, reflected at an angle. Simon was sitting on his bed, legs crossed, elbows on his knees, hands hanging loose. He was already in his usual sleeping clothes, a white T-shirt and plaid shorts, and his face was a little ruddy from scrubbing, a fringe of hair damp across his forehead. His blue eyes were looking straight at Baz.

Baz shut his mouth which seemed to have dropped open when he wasn’t noticing, and began stubbornly finishing his buttons again. “What about it?”

A hint of irritation crept into Simon’s voice, which made Baz feel rather more comfortable. The natural order of things. “Baz. I remember. I was awake the whole time, I just couldn’t move, or speak, or anything—”

Baz shuddered slightly. That was one of the worst, and trickiest, forms of the living death curse – eternal consciousness thrown in for a bit of extra horror. No wonder the words of the spell alone hadn’t worked.

Simon was still speaking. “And when I came out of it, I was confused. But I remember now. I heard you, I….” He trailed off, but one hand went to his mouth, almost absently.

Baz shrugged and spoke in a carefully sardonic tone. “So? It worked, didn’t it? Sorry if I disturbed your delicate sensibilities while I was busy saving your life. Feel free to forget about it and carry on.”

Simon spoke very quietly. “ _True love_ , Baz? How long has this been—“

“It’s just a _spell_ , Snow,” Baz shot at him, cutting him off. He couldn’t talk about this, it would ruin everything. He looked around for his dressing gown – clearly he was going to have to retreat to the couches downstairs to get any sleep tonight. “It’s just _magic._ The most common antidote to living death spells—”

“’The key to casting a spell,’” Simon said, as if reciting, “’is tapping into the power behind the words. Summoning their meaning.’”

Baz faltered, but then continued, snidely. “Oh, well done. At least you listened back in first year.” There it was. He snatched up his dressing gown and turned to stalk out.

“Oh, no,” said Simon, jumping up and stepping between him and the door. His fists were clenched. Typical. “It’s not safe out there. And you’re not getting out of this.”

Baz rolled his eyes, and made to dart around him, but Simon stood stubbornly in his way. Even as tired as he was, in spite of his twanging nerves, Baz could certainly force his way past him. But – the Roommate’s Anathema. And – he had always meant it when he said he would never hurt Simon.

So he turned and sat, heavily, on his own bed, tossing his robe to the side. Get it done, whatever it was Simon thought he needed to say, and then Baz could finally sleep. Then things could go back to normal, and he could pretend to his dying day that they had never had this conversation.

Simon took a few steps forward, still standing, and crossed his arms. “So,” he said. “Tell me. How long have you felt this way? About… about me.”

Baz squirmed. “I don’t see how this is relevant to anything, Snow.”

“I thought you _hated_ me, Baz. I thought you wanted to _kill_ me. And I never understood why.” Baz winced. He flexed his fingers briefly to prevent himself from covering his face in despair, which would probably not contribute to the aura of aloofness he was trying to project here. “And now I find out… so how long have you felt like this?”

Baz stared at his hands for a minute, or longer. There were so many answers to that.

_Since last night when you held me back in the woods, somehow, with just your eyes and voice; and then brought me back to the room when I was shaking almost too hard to stand, and put me to bed; and sat on the floor and stroked my head till I fell asleep, even if I did wake up again an hour later. And you were still right there, asleep on the floor, leaning against the bedpost, and I poked you and told you not to be a silly git and you crawled into your bed and I listened to you snore the rest of the night…._

_Since you told me last year that I’m not really evil – with that stupid grin on your face. And I—I believed you._

_Since we started working together this year because you needed another ally against the Humdrum…._

_Since I had to lie here every damned night since sixth year, smelling you, craving blood but knowing it would never, ever,_ ever _be yours, that I couldn’t bear to hurt you, and I finally had to ask myself why not…._

_Since you started dating Agatha, and I was so jealous I could hardly see straight, even if I thought it was about her, at first…._

_Since they made us lab partners and I had to sit by you every week, six inches away, and how much I loved to see you blush when I teased you…._

_Since we fought the chimaera together third year, and I was terrified you would die, and it would be my fault…._

_Since I tried to shake your hand first year and you scowled so disapprovingly about that stupid cat, and I actually felt badly about it, for weeks…._

“Since the first day,” he said at last, unwillingly. “Since we met.” He snuck a glance up at Simon. His eyes were wide, and Baz could practically see him thinking back, making connections. Simon’s face was so easy to read sometimes, like a book he knew by heart.

“Baz, I never realized, I….”

But Baz shook his head, sharply. “I don’t need your pity,” he said, very stiff and formal. He was pleased that he managed to avoid snarling it. More dignified this way.

“I’m not….”

“Aleister almighty, Snow,” Baz exclaimed, putting his hands over his face at last, pushing the heels into his eyes. “Maybe _you’re_ ready to stand here and talk about our _feelings_ till dawn, but I for one am exhausted. Can’t you give it a rest? I’m sorry, all right?”

“Are you?”

Baz peered up at him. He had shifted, and Simon’s face was backlit by the overhead lamp now, hard to see clearly. In a flash of memory that was more like a punch in the gut, Baz suddenly felt he was back in the forest last night – his face pressed into Simon’s warm stomach, breathing his scent of apple and pine, his trembling arms clinging around his waist, and the memory of Simon’s hand, firm on the back of his neck, was so strong that Baz almost reached back now, expecting it to still be there. The light above them made Simon’s hair glow golden, and outlined his jaw, the curve of his neck…. _Nope_ , Baz told himself. He surely wasn’t thinking _that_ , he wasn’t thinking any of this. _I know_ , Simon had said last night. But he didn’t really, he didn’t know anything.

“You don’t have to worry,” Baz said at last, dropping his gaze to the floor. “It’s not important, nothing’s changed. It won’t happen again.”

He saw Simon’s feet take a step closer. “Don’t… don’t say that.”

Baz blinked. Then blinked again. Then looked up. “What?”

“Don’t say that, any of that. It _is_ important. And especially….” He almost whispered. “Don’t say it won’t happen again.”

A long pause. “Snow, I’m tired. I don’t think my ears are working right,” Baz said. Though he didn’t _feel_ tired at the moment.

Simon took a final step and half-knelt, half-sat on the bed next to Baz, facing him. Close enough that Baz could feel the heat radiating off him. He wanted to close the gap between them immediately—or to shrink away into the corner. Impossible to decide which he wanted more, so he simply sat very still.

“I should have figured it all out earlier.” Simon’s voice was gentle, and apologetic. “When it got harder and harder to think about how I’ve been constantly putting you in danger. When I saw that I’ve been relying on you more and more, as if we’re a… a pair of hands. When I realized, finally, what… what you are, and that I didn’t care, that I trust you, that it doesn’t matter.

“I should have said something today, after last night, but… I didn’t know what you’d do.” He smiled ruefully. “You’re braver than me, Baz.”

 _Not bloody likely,_ thought Baz, his lip curling. “I _did_ think you were asleep tonight, unconscious, whatever. Not sure that counts as bravery.”

“It is. It does.” Simon slid his hand onto Baz’s face, along his jawline. The touch felt like sinking into a hot bath. Baz’s head was suddenly heavy, and he leaned it into Simon’s hand.

“And I suppose you’re the resident expert on bravery, oh Hero Snow.” Baz grumbled the words, trying to pull himself together.

Simon blushed ( _those apple-red cheeks_ —Baz just wanted to _bite_ them; metaphorically, of course, considering… well, maybe just a nibble) but said, “That’s right, I am, so just accept it. And now,” he leaned closer, “I’m going to be brave.”

Baz flinched slightly, and Simon stopped, looking at him.

Did you really just say all that? Baz thought. Am I even awake? He had to start talking before he did something rash.

“Simon, are you—are you sure? You do _know_ who you’re talking to, here? This isn’t just some twisted form of gratitude or chivalry or… or drunken sleep deprivation or some damnfool thing like that? Because if—if you really…” he swallowed hard, then hurried on, almost babbling, “kiss me, and then you regret it in five minutes or an hour or in the morning—well, let’s be honest, I’d still say, do it. But I know I shouldn’t, I know it might…” _Destroy me_ , Baz thought, but could not say.

Simon’s hand withdrew, and he looked down. _Oh dear Crowley, did I just talk him out of it?_ thought Baz. _What the bloody hell is the_ matter _with me?_

“I knew for sure last night,” said Simon, still looking at his hands, twisting his fingers together till the knuckles whitened. Baz stared at his face, at his outrageous eyelashes against those cheeks. “Finally. Because when I ran out to the forest, I _did_ want to help Agatha—but it was mostly for your sake. All I could think of was _you_ , what I could say, how I could help stop you and protect you, how you would feel if I didn’t… that I might _lose_ you and that I… I couldn’t stand that. I thought all this after you were finally asleep last night. I thought about it all day, but I didn’t know what to say, I didn’t know what you would say. I was afraid you would laugh, or just… not take me seriously—you’re kind of good at that.” He looked up suddenly, catching Baz’s gray eyes with his vivid blue, and Baz couldn’t look away.

“Baz, you’re—you’re my shadow now, or I’m yours, and I don’t even care which it is.” His voice caught with intensity, his eyes practically begging Baz to believe him. “I feel like you make my legs weak, like I’m going to fall—but… but you’re also the hands on my shoulders. Holding me up.”

Baz’s breath stuttered in his throat, and he let his head fall back slightly, against the wall behind him. It was like hearing his own words from Simon’s mouth, like he had plucked them right out of Baz’s mind and heart and stomach. “That sounds like… like something _I_ would say.” He tried for a light tone, rather than utter shock and wonder, but he was failing, failing miserably. “How…?”

“I told you, Baz,” Simon said gently, leaning towards him, closer, close enough that Baz could feel his breath, could feel their noses touch. “I _know._ ”

Baz closed his eyes. He couldn’t move, not even to lift his head. This was a dream, a dream; he’d _had_ this dream, and others, so many times he couldn’t start to count… any second now his alarm clock would blare and he would curse it out, at length, with a vicious emphasis and variety that Simon had always commented on in a bewildered tone. Baz, of course, had never explained the reason to him.

But instead of the shock of the alarm, Baz felt Simon’s lips against his, not cool and dry this time, but warm, and soft, and insistent.

All these years, whenever he was weak and failed to stop himself from imagining this—Simon kissing him ( _willingly, on purpose, happily even_ )—he had worried that he was idealizing too much, that the reality of it (however non-existent the possibility of _that_ was) would suffer from the mental comparison, from too much advance hype. But now – he (or rather, one tiny, detached corner of his mind) was shocked to find that he couldn’t even pause to make those comparisons. He was far too busy in the moment—busy with the rasp of stubble on Simon’s chin and upper lip; with his warm breath; with the smell of him, so close, surrounding him; with his gentle lips, the merest bit hesitant. Simon’s hand stole tentatively back up to his face, to his jaw, and Baz felt positively dizzy; he had to clutch at Simon’s arms.  

 _Easy. Keep it together, Pitch,_ he thought desperately. He didn’t want to make an ass of himself, or, far more importantly, scare Simon off already. _Don’t be so fucking needy._ His whole life was, had always been, about restraint, and he wasn’t sure he could change that. Or should. Even now.

Simon paused for a moment—their lips still barely brushing, sharing the same, slightly panting breath. Baz couldn’t prevent the tiniest whimper from escaping his throat—an involuntary protest. _Ancient gods,_ he thought. _I am just so doomed._ And he gave up, at last—pounced forward, threaded his fingers into Simon’s hair, cupping the back of his head and neck with both hands, not a thought in his head as he curled in toward him and darted his tongue into his mouth. Simon’s arms folded around him and pulled him closer, but then—

Then Simon snort-laughed, breaking off, ducking his head. “Sorry, I’m sorry, it’s just…. You taste like mint Aeros, Baz. You found my stash again, didn’t you? I thought I’d picked a good hiding place this time.”

Baz felt his cheeks redden. “Well, you were in the bath a long time,” he admitted, archly; Simon half-giggled, half-snorted, and Baz pressed on, gaining momentum, “and breaking curses really takes it out of me. Also, you’ll have to do better than taping them to the back of your chest of drawers, I mean honestly, who do you think you’re dealing with here?” Simon’s shoulders shook with laughter as he leaned into Baz’s chest. Baz’s hand crept up to Simon’s hair again; he was a bit flustered but grinning – anything that made Simon laugh like that, that sound of pure delight, was fine with him. Still…. “Hey, do you mind, Snow? I’m having a moment here.”

Simon sat up, still laughing a little, but slid his warm hand around the back of Baz’s neck and looked into his eyes. “Really? ‘Snow’?”

Baz took a shuddery breath. “Simon,” he said, softly.

“I’m having a moment, too, Baz,” Simon said, leaning closer again. (That sound, his name in Simon’s mouth—Baz could listen to that for the rest of the night, the week, eternity.) “I could stand to have a few moments…. But, you know,” he said, drawing back a bit, suddenly, grinning, “if you’re too _tired_ ….”

"Oh, ho ho—not tired now,” Baz growled. He pulled him in and kissed that stupid, wonderful grin right off Simon’s face.

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bonus snippet: Simon's POV of chapter 1

“I told you, Baz,” Simon said gently, leaning towards him, closer, close enough that his nose was touching Baz’s, and his own eyes were half closed, looking at Baz’s lips. “I _know._ ”

Baz closed his eyes, didn’t move, his head still leaned slightly back against the wall. Simon hesitated for one second. It wasn’t that he doubted that Baz wanted this – the spell tonight, after all… and Baz’s words earlier, _“I’d still say, do it…”_ – but he was still nervous, somehow. Why? he asked himself, impatiently. It’s not like you’ve never kissed anyone before. He wet his lips with his tongue (Baz’s eyes were still closed), let his own eyes fall shut, and stretched his neck that final inch.

But of course, however much Simon had ever snogged with Agatha – this was different. Probably it would have been different with anyone… but this was _Baz._ His former enemy, his terrible roommate, once-upon-a-time the bane of his school existence – and even though Simon felt completely differently about him now, he was still rather… intimidating.

Intimidatingly good-looking, for one thing. Tall ( _still_ taller than Simon, not that he was bitter), clear-skinned and pale, with that haughty nose and those expressively sardonic eyebrows and lips. Tall and slim and elegant, and it made Simon feel clumsy and squat sometimes just to look at him. And his heavy black hair – last night, after the forest, Simon had helped a shaking Baz into bed, pulled his blankets up, and then sat on the floor by the head of the bed, with one hand on his head, stroking his hair. Baz had been so twitchy, too exhausted and wrung out to sleep, and it seemed to soothe him a little, help him doze off, which was Simon’s main goal at the time – but he couldn’t pretend that he didn’t want to touch his hair again, and not for Baz’s comfort.

But the intimidation didn’t stop there. Baz’s silver tongue – he could be so cold, so biting, he always had an acid comment, for everything. Sometimes, especially lately, it was hilarious, but it often left Simon at a disadvantage. He knew he’d always been an easy mark for Baz to provoke, with his temper and his impulsiveness, and he couldn’t help it. He still couldn’t. And part of him was a little uneasy – could all this really be true? Yes, Baz was a good actor, probably could’ve easily hid his feelings all this time… and there was the spell tonight. ( _True love’s kiss._ Crowley, it made Simon shake inside just thinking about it. It was scary. He believed it, he had to – the spell wouldn’t have worked if it wasn’t true, if Baz didn’t really feel that way… but it was still scary.) But. But could he really feel like that about _Simon?_

_About me?_ He was just an orphan, a nobody-in-particular—all this Mage’s Heir nonsense was just that. It was important but it never seemed quite real, inside him. Baz was from a wealthy, prominent magician family, going back generations; he was talented and handsome and clever and brave (and _noble_ , and heroic, even though he always mocked Simon into oblivion if Simon even hinted at such a thing). He could have any person he wanted in the school, male or female. Why Simon? It wasn’t that he wanted to question Baz’s word… but a little corner of his brain couldn’t seem to stop himself.

But then again – Baz’s voice, the sound when he had said, just a moment ago, _Are you sure?_ Simon could hardly bear thinking of it, it had been so… so naked. So despairing, so weary, so disbelieving. And now—Simon wanted Baz to _know,_ he never wanted him to feel that disbelief again. Not about me, or what I feel.

Baz didn’t exactly just sit there, he was certainly kissing back, even if his head was still leaning on the wall. Maybe he really was just that tired. His lips were so soft, pulling at Simon’s… Simon wanted to touch his hair again, but felt too shy and settled for merely placing his hand on Baz’s cheek and jaw. Baz let out a breath against Simon’s cheek and put his hands on Simon’s upper arms, his fingers closing in a firm grip. It made Simon shiver.

He needed a moment. He pulled back ever so slightly, just enough to crack his eyelids and see Baz’s dark lashes against his pale cheeks. Their lips were still brushing, just barely. Baz whimpered, almost under his breath, the warm breath that they were breathing together, and something twisted inside Simon – something fiercely protective and tender, both at once. _Oh no, Baz, love, don’t…_ As soon as he recognized the words of his own thought, Simon began berating himself: what are you, an idiot, you can’t say _that_ , not yet, maybe not ever… And why not? he shot back at himself.

But then, then Baz was moving forward, grabbing at him, his long-fingered hands around Simon’s head and the back of his neck, tangling in his hair; their mouths were together and opening, Simon was biting at Baz’s lower lip, and Baz’s tongue was slipping into his mouth, against his own, and back; Baz was practically climbing into Simon’s lap, and Simon’s arms were around him without even thinking, without noticing, as if that’s where they were meant to be, around Baz, one hand sliding to the small of his back and one holding the back of his neck, pulling him in closer; and he felt like there was a twisting rope of fire in his belly and his groin, and then he was just a little distracted by the taste of… mint chocolate?

And he couldn’t help it, he started to laugh, a little giddy, a little nervous, and he ducked his chin to hide his embarrassment. “Sorry, I’m sorry, it’s just…. You taste like mint Aeros, Baz. You found my stash again, didn’t you?” Good grief, the ongoing battle. He didn’t even know when it had started, years ago certainly. He would get a few bars (his favorites, and Baz’s as well), hide them; Baz would find them, eat them, and leave the wrappers tauntingly on Simon’s desk. It used to drive him completely mad—but in the last year it had morphed into something more like a challenge, a game. “I thought I’d picked a good hiding place this time.”

Simon peeked up at Baz’s face, nervously. Baz was doing that arch-villain thing with his eyebrows, but his cheeks were red and his black hair was a bit disheveled, which rather spoiled the effect. “Well, you were in the bath a long time,” he admitted, “and breaking curses really takes it out of me.” Simon snorted, giggled. I must sound like an idiot, he thought, but he couldn’t seem to stop. Baz didn’t appear to mind – he continued as if he were just getting warmed up, as if he wanted to make Simon laugh. “Also, you’ll have to do better than taping them to the back of your chest of drawers, I mean honestly, who do you think you’re dealing with here?”

Simon leaned the top of his head into Baz’s chest, laughing helplessly – gods, he smelled _wonderful_ , like burning sandalwood and something so sharp and clear it hurt, like a cold autumn night. Vampire sense of smell, he thought. It’s hopeless, my Aeros will never be safe. As if I care. As if he can’t just have them all, now, he thought, grinning.

He felt Baz’s hand touch his head, softly, fingers caressing his curls. “Hey, do you mind, Snow? I’m having a moment here.” Simon could hear the sarcasm, the smile in his voice, but also something else – something just a little timid.

He sat up, his laughter finally subsiding, and slid his hand around the back of Baz’s neck, firmly. He looked into his grey eyes (warm and cloudy now, like a wool blanket, like a soft winter sky – it could be a regular telly programme, the weather forecast of those eyes), and smiled reprovingly. “Really? ‘Snow’?” _You’re not getting away with this one, Baz,_ he thought at him. _Not right now._

Baz took a shuddering breath. “Simon,” he said, softly, meekly. Something in Simon’s chest purred, self-satisfied.

“I’m having a moment, too, Baz,” Simon said, pulling at Baz’s neck. “I could stand to have a few moments….” He wanted him to _know,_ wanted to show him, even if he couldn’t say it yet, _oh love_ …. He leaned in closer, but such giddy happiness bubbled up in him suddenly that he couldn’t resist—

“But, you know,” he drew back, abruptly, his face cracking into a huge, teasing grin, “if you’re too _tired_ ….”

He saw surprise, disappointment, and then narrow-eyed playfulness chase across Baz’s face in quick succession. "Oh, ho ho—not tired now,” Baz growled, and Simon’s stomach contracted at the sound. And then Baz was kissing him so hard, so thoroughly, that he couldn’t breathe. But that was okay, he didn’t really want to.

 


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapters 1, 2 and 4 are rated T - this chapter (3) edges toward M - please take note.

Simon started to get his breath back after a few minutes, and a little bit of conscious thought. They were still sitting up on the bed, but Baz had pushed Simon back against the wall. Baz is good with his tongue, better than me, doesn’t overdo it, Simon thought, but Baz suddenly pushed in harder, and their teeth clicked together for a moment, and Simon suppressed a laugh. Kissing is _so_ ridiculous, he thought. And I never want to stop.

#

He couldn’t make himself stop touching Simon’s hair. Fingers combing up through it, then smoothing it down with his palms, the curls at the back of his neck, pressing his nose into it and breathing – soft and dark gold and apple-scented. His throat ached.

#

Simple discoveries: Pressing his hand to Baz’s face – fantastic reaction. His palm on Baz’s jaw made Baz slow, made him close his eyes and lean his head into Simon’s hand, every time. It was good for catching his own breath, and better for seeing the slight tremble of Baz’s lip, for hearing the sound like a low purr in his throat.

#

His hand, Simon’s hand on his cheek… it felt so warm, so safe, so incredible that he was vibrating inside, he couldn’t believe that his own hands weren’t shaking. And it felt like fear. All the things he didn’t dare – yet. All the things he might not dare ever. Like Simon’s neck. He wanted to kiss his neck so much it hurt, so much it left him feeling like a gibbering idiot, but he didn’t dare, couldn’t. He needed some semblance of control, he had to have some boundaries – all the needs and hungers and lusts were roiling together and he couldn’t just let go, he had to keep Simon safe.

#

Simon let his hands slide down Baz’s face, down along his pale neck, thumbs stroking his throat. His brain was fuzzy, staticked out with desire. He pushed his nose up under his jaw, kissed down to his collarbone, inside the collar of his shirt, ran his tongue back up the side of his neck, and then his teeth, gently. He latched on to the soft spot where Baz’s neck met his shoulder, sucking and biting, softly, and for just a moment he tried to think something about _who’s the vampire here, anyway?_ but he was too incoherent to get very far.

#

Gasping for air, his head back, Simon at his throat, so gently. He was dizzy, and he’d lost all sense of where the edge of the bed was behind him; he reached around between the wall and Simon and held him, slid his hands up under his shirt so he could pull against his lower back, not fall over…. Simon grunted, and Baz felt fingers at his chest, fumbling with buttons. Simon finally released his neck long enough to undo the last two, long enough to push the shirt back over his shoulders, long enough to let Baz wrestle it off his own arms while Simon whipped his T-shirt up and over his head and threw it over to his bed across the room. “Dear Crowley, you’re letting _me_ do that next time,” Baz said hoarsely, staring, and Simon just laughed and pushed Baz over onto the mattress, pressed their bare stomachs together and started on the other side of his neck, while Baz moaned and tried desperately, unsuccessfully, not to whimper.

#

Simon pressed his whole hand, both his hands, against Baz’s skin, hard, palms and fingers, like he wanted to feel him in the whorls of his fingerprints, in the creases of his life-line. Baz’s hands were gliding over his back, his neck, his arms, his chest—they felt slightly cool and soothing on his hot skin—they held his head against Baz’s neck and he felt Baz’s breath in his ear, Baz’s voice humming and shivering, whispering, _Simon,_ and he had to stop, put his forehead against Baz’s collarbone, breathe deeply and fight off a deep shudder.

“Everything all right?”

“Oh gods, yes. I’m just….” He shifted a little, and mumbled. “Really hard.”

He felt his cheeks flushing (more). Stupid thing to say. He looked up. But Baz didn’t laugh. His eyes were practically glowing, a rim of silver around blown-out black pupils. He kissed Simon’s forehead, his eyes, his nose; he pushed their faces together – too hard to be called a nuzzle – a little too desperately. He spoke softly, and the timbre of his voice (smooth and rich and slightly husky) just made everything worse. Or better. “I’d like to help with that.”

Simon groaned and kissed him fiercely, nodding and nodding. Baz smiled into his mouth and flipped him over onto his back—Simon gave a muffled exclamation of surprise, then laughed and tried to pull him close again, urgently, but Baz tutted him. “Shhh,” he said. “Patience.” Simon opened his mouth to tell him exactly what he could do with this “patience” crap, but then Baz was slipping his hand down the front of Simon’s pants, and he entirely lost what he was going to say.

#

Simon groaning and whimpering under Baz’s touch—it was almost more than Baz could stand. Simon speechless was always just… adorable, there was no other word for it, and right now Baz couldn’t decide if he wanted to laugh or growl. He did neither, merely thought for a moment, nonsensically, _mine mine mine._

Simon looked at him, panting, clearly struggling to articulate. “Should I be… I mean, do you want me to…?”

“Of course, dear. But in a minute.”

Simon nodded, his eyes fogging over again, his palms pressing down on the top of Baz’s shoulders, fingers kneading into his back. He tried to duck his head, but Baz gently stopped him, pulled his face back up with one hand in his hair, setting their foreheads together. “No, look at me,” he breathed, insistently, “look at me, Snow.” Simon’s eyes met his with a mingled look of both near-pathetic effort and a ludicrously clear annoyance, and Baz let out a puff of laughter.

“Simon,” he crooned, caught between amusement and tenderness. “ _Simon, Simon, Simon_.” The blue eyes half-closed, unseeing, but he didn’t lower his head again, and Baz watched him, cupping his face with his free hand, almost aghast at the fierce joy in the pit of his stomach.

#

He was quivering, shaking, falling, he could barely see, couldn’t speak, couldn’t think, his head was filled with light and dark and nothing but _oh Baz, Baz, Basil, oh Baz._

#

Baz watched his face, flushed and ruddy, and his drooping, unfocused eyes, listened to his gasping subside, with sharp pleasure, with triumph and wonder and a kind of hunger. He put his forehead down on Simon’s shoulder, smiling a little, sighing—but then found himself clinging to Simon, trembling almost as if he were the one who had just come. The backs of his eyes were burning.

Baz was appalled. What is this fresh absurdity? Aleister Crowley, I am _not_ going to cry. I don’t _cry_. And Simon wouldn’t know what to do with me, or he’d be kind and pitying, and I just can’t take it. What is _wrong_ with me?

As if he had heard him, Simon whispered, “Baz, what’s wrong?”

“Nothing.”

Still in a whisper. “Baz.” Simon touched his face lightly. There weren’t any tears there to feel (Baz didn’t think there were), but Simon’s fingers traced where they would have been.

Whispering was all right. Whispering made it feel like his words weren’t real. “I’m just… glad that….”

“Glad that what?”

“Glad that you didn’t… die.” Even in a whisper, his voice was thick, and it squeaked a little at the end. He pressed his face into Simon’s bare chest, shaking.

 _I never thought… I would be so lucky. I never thought this could happen. And… and three hours ago I was kneeling in the leaves and I thought you were dying, gods, I was so afraid, you were dying, gray and cold and how is this only hitting me now? dying dying dying, like Grandfather, like little Ariadne, like Mother, I thought it was all being snatched away_ again _and I would never get to tell you anything…_

Pity that the bit about vampires transforming into bats was just a myth. He wanted to fly out the window, to run, outside into the cold, till he could get a grip on himself. For a moment he seriously considered it, considered just bolting down the hall in his half-clothed state. But before he could even move, Simon had enfolded him in his arms, was hugging him so tightly he almost couldn’t breathe, and it was such a relief, a _relief,_ he couldn’t remember the last time someone had held him, not before last night anyway, couldn’t even remember the last time he’d been touched, though obviously that was wrong, inaccurate, it wasn’t like he’d never been with anyone before....

All Baz knew was that he hadn’t realized how bad it was until Simon held him and the aching stopped.

#

For just a moment, after, there was a tiny, selfish part of Simon that had just wanted to roll over and pass out, he was so sleepy, so relaxed. His eyelids were terribly heavy.

But then Baz was holding on to him so tightly, burying his face in Simon’s shoulder, and shaking, again, almost as violently as he had been last night. If anyone had told Simon, a year ago, a week even, that he would ever see Baz, cool, controlled Basilton Pitch, in such a state, he would have laughed at them. _And over me?_

 _“Glad that you didn’t die,”_ he’d said. Crowley, what could Simon possibly say to that? To _him_ , to Baz, who was the whole reason he _wasn’t_ dead, tonight… but apparently that thought didn’t make Baz feel any better right now.

He stroked his black hair and whispered, over and over again, “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, Baz, I’m here, it’s all right, I’m alive, I’m here.” _So sorry, so sorry,_ he thought, his throat tight. _So sorry I put you through that, sorry that it probably isn’t for the last time._ He wished he could promise… what? Everything. _Seeing Baz like this, without any… armor._ It made Simon want to be his armor.

He didn’t know how to say any of this. So he held him tightly until Baz stopped gulping, until his breathing eased, and he looked up into Simon’s face again, his grey eyes dry but over-large. Then he kissed him slowly, comfortingly, until Baz pressed for more, and then he drew small circles with his palm all over Baz’s skin where he lay beside him, pressing the tension out of his back and shoulders, until Baz hissed impatiently and grabbed his hand, pulling it down.

Simon grinned. He’d thought… he’d been afraid that he would be too nervous, awkward, too fumbling, but it was fine, more than fine, and also, well, _fun._ Baz was cursing, quietly, breathlessly, and whimpering Simon’s name, and Simon was just so… so _happy,_ trying to watch his beautiful eyes, his panting mouth, feeling Baz’s hand hooked around the back of his neck. At last his face was contorting, into tension and surprise and bliss, and Simon couldn’t hold himself back, he had to kiss him again, and Baz groaned and cried out into Simon’s mouth as he shuddered, and Simon pulled him close and whispered into his ear, again and again: “I’m here, Baz. I’m here.”

#

_… until Simon held him and the aching stopped._

Baz’s eyes were shut tight, and everything else was more vivid. His cheek lay against Simon’s chest – he could feel cooling sweat, Simon’s heartbeat, feel his muscles move as Simon’s hand stroked his head (the skin on his fingers slightly rough, catching just a bit on Baz’s hair), smell him, gods, his scent, scents, all of them: sweat, pine, apples, soap, the salty, mineral smell of sex, his breath, his neck, his skin, Baz could smell them all. And hear his voice whispering, _I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, Baz, I’m here, it’s all right, I’m alive, I’m here,_ over and over. Feel his other arm, strong around Baz, holding him firmly, anchoring him. Baz moved, just slightly, and Simon’s arm tightened, and Baz could feel the muscles in his own back and shoulders droop a little in relief. That Simon wasn’t going to let go. He burrowed in closer, pushed his face harder into his chest, pulled with his somewhat sticky left hand on Simon’s hip, curled his knees around Simon’s leg.

He tried to steady his breathing. It was all so unnerving. He wasn’t like this, not normally. You could ask anyone – well, not _anyone,_ he wasn’t a complete slut, or player, or whatever. But you could’ve asked Patrick Sheeny (if he even remembered him), or Elliana Stephenson (if she hadn’t graduated last year), or Ioan Davies (ugh, guilt), or Raj Singla (Raj probably remembered him, right?), or… _The point was_ , he wasn’t normally like this. So… insecure. High-strung. Clingy. But he had never felt like this either, never ever, not with anyone at school; certainly not with Killian back home… _Crowley_ , he hadn’t thought of Killian in years, and didn’t particularly want to think of him now. With Killian everything had been intense and obsessive and nothing like this, now.

He had never felt this safe. Or this scared. _How can I be both?_

Maybe because when he looked up, finally, into Simon’s blue eyes, they were clear and peaceful as water, and yet terrifyingly full of… emotion. (Baz couldn’t try to describe it, define it, he was really too much of a coward for that— _a monster_ and _a coward, terrific combination, Pitch, really terrific_ —and he couldn’t even begin to entertain the thought that Simon might… better to just say  _emotion_  and leave it at that for now.) Maybe it was the way Simon kissed him then, steadily, comfortingly, the kissing equivalent of his arms holding Baz, so securely. And slowly, as if he had all the time in the world, as if he had not a single more pressing matter than this, and he never would. This from Simon Snow, the action-taker, the utterly impulsive, the  _charge-in-first, look-sheepish-with-surprise-and-regrets-he-should-totally-have-foreseen-later_. But right now he was so… what? Not patient. _Patient_ implied waiting, or condescension even, and Simon just seemed… solid. Content. As if he couldn’t ask for anything more, and didn’t even want to. 

But Baz wanted to. Now that he was a little steadier, could breathe without gulping, he pressed in a little more, caught Simon’s bottom lip more securely, ran his tongue along it, past it. And Simon let him – he could feel it, feel him _letting_ him, and dear _Norrell_ , it was irritating – and shifted him a little to the side, started rubbing his back with one hand. Small, firm circles – lovely; Baz could feel the knots in his shoulders, each one, and how Simon’s fingers found them, eased them. Almost like magic, ha ha. He shivered.

Simon had the nerve to grin, the smug little bastard. As if he weren’t afraid at all, or even nervous – and it abruptly occurred to Baz (again) that this was probably Simon’s first time like this, with a boy anyway, almost certainly. (Unless it wasn’t, and that’s why he wasn’t nervous?) Not that the concept was difficult. Baz felt suddenly, blushingly guilty about it, though. _Maybe I should be a bit more considerate? Or a lot more…._ Between his exhaustion and his near-breakdown a minute ago, he felt so off balance, so at a disadvantage.

Even if Simon seemed determined _not_ to take advantage of this, seemed bent on going slowly, giving Baz time to recover. In fact, he showed zero signs of moving on, seemed content to just rub Baz’s back and drive him slowly, completely, pantingly mad, and finally Baz exhaled impatiently, his breath hissing out, and snatched Simon’s wrist, pulling his hand downwards. They were lying so close, face to face, still kissing, and Simon’s fingers caught awkwardly on Baz’s waistband. He grimaced, but Simon just grinned again, pushed on Baz’s shoulder, pressing his back down against the bed for a better angle, and slid his hand past the offending elastic.

Baz’s racing, distracted thoughts seemed to hit a brick wall as Simon’s fingers closed around him. He tried to catch his breath, tried to tell himself to savor it, savor it, this is all probably some aberration anyway, but he couldn’t breathe properly; it was almost like drowning, and he’d waited so _long_ …

Simon was kissing his neck again, and his hand never stopped moving, and Baz was fast losing any remaining capacity for rational thought. And the ability to control his voice. “Gods, Simon, you… I _can’t_ —” He could hear his own pathetic whimpering, his voice breathless and breaking and shivering, and he couldn’t do a damn thing about it. All his internal seams and sharp edges were rattling and scraping, his control cracking, and he hooked a hand around the back of Simon’s neck, trying to hold himself together, but it was impossible, he couldn’t shut his mouth, or stop the shaking, or quell the rising tide. He barely heard his panting curses, he couldn’t even hear his own thoughts at this point. “ _Shit, shit, bloody hell, I can’t—Simon, please, I, please, Simon, Simon—_ ” _help me,_ he thought, almost deliriously, and barely bit back the words that even now, he couldn’t say: _gods, I love you, please, I love you, Simon…._

And suddenly Simon was there, kissing him again, open mouthed, and everything peaked and broke and fell, crashing over him in a hot wave, heat rushing through all his limbs. His cry was muffled in Simon’s mouth, he was dizzy, blinded, and as he gasped and shuddered and then spiraled down, Simon pulled him close, closer, one arm under his shoulders; and for a moment it didn’t matter that he was a monster, or that he was broken, _broken, broken,_ because Simon was holding him tightly again, and whispering in his ear, over and over: “ _I’m here, Baz. I’m here._ ”

 


	4. Chapter 4

Simon wasn’t sure he would ever move again. They lay on Baz’s bed, shirtless, Simon on his back with one hand under his head, Baz up on one elbow at his side. Simon felt limp with release, his lips almost swollen from all the snogging, his eyelids heavy.

“You’re tired,” Baz said softly. He was running one hand through the short curls on Simon’s head, his other hand lying warm on Simon’s chest.

“Look who’s talking,” said Simon, opening one eye. Baz looked relaxed, but absolutely exhausted. Simon studied the dark hollows under Baz’s eyes and then craned his neck to place a kiss on each one. “Did you sleep at all last night?”

Baz shrugged and didn’t answer. Simon started to frown, and Baz rolled his eyes at him. "Don't fret, _mother dear,_ I'm sure I'll sleep fine tonight." A sly smile played across his face, and he leaned down and kissed Simon's shoulder, and up his neck to his jaw. Simon shivered. "Mmm," Baz hummed, and then sighed, his breath hot on Simon's skin. "You should roll that way for a minute."

Simon hesitated for just a split second. I trust Baz, he thought, and whatever is fine with me. He started to turn, hoping Baz hadn’t noticed his uncertainty.

But he had. “Hey.” Baz’s voice was always smooth and sleek, like some kind of jungle cat’s pelt, but Simon had never heard it so gentle. He pushed Simon’s shoulder back flat into the mattress and looked at him closely. “Are you nervous?” he asked quietly. “Did you think…?”

Simon shrugged. Baz raised an eyebrow. “Okay, maybe. But it’s fine, whatever you want, Baz, it’s fine—”

Baz was shaking his head. “All right, Snow, third of all—”

“’Third of all’?” Simon was confused. “Don’t you mean ‘first of all’?”

Baz set a long finger on Simon’s lips. “Hush. I know what I mean.” He cleared his throat and held up three fingers. “Third of all, I am completely knackered, and I’m just hoping to sleep with you in my arms for the rest of the night, and most of tomorrow, if at all possible.” Simon grinned, and reached up to pull him into a kiss, but Baz fended off his hand. “Now, now, pontificating here. No interruptions, please. Secondly,” he continued, “that sort of thing requires, ahem, some advance preparation for best results, so there’s that, anyway.

“And first of all,” here Baz traced his forefinger along Simon’s cheek, looking into his eyes, “it’s not whatever _I_ want. I’m not going to… to push you, or sneak anything over on you. When, or if, or never—we’re going to talk about it first, all right?” Simon just looked at him. Baz grabbed Simon’s chin and shook it a little. “All right?”

“All… all right,” Simon said. “Sorry, I just…”

“Don’t be sorry, why should you be?”

“I just…” Simon chewed the inside of his lip for a moment. “I just want you to know—how I feel, that I trust you. I don’t want to be nervous.”

Baz closed his eyes. After a moment he swallowed hard and whispered, “Simon… you don’t have to prove anything. Not to me.” He rubbed his forehead with the heel of his hand. “If anything… _Crowley_ , you should be sleeping with one eye open. I’ve threatened you and harassed you and lied to you and generally acted like a snotty bastard ever since we met, I can’t even believe you would….” His voice was harsh now, and he started to sit up, to move away. “You are far too trusting, and I am _not_ trustworthy, you shouldn’t—”

“Baz.” Simon sat up faster than he would’ve thought possible a minute ago, and put both hands around the other boy’s narrow face, holding it like something fragile, an egg, a crystal. “ _Baz._ Stop.”

Baz was breathing heavily, his eyes dark and shadowed, and he refused to look at Simon. But he didn’t pull away from his hands, either, and that gave Simon a little hope.

There had to be something he could say or do to help, to… to _fix_ things. The obvious first solution – kissing – seemed unfair though. And he didn’t want to obscure the real problem. “Baz, of course I trust you. I know you don’t hurt people….”

He shut his eyes. “I came close enough last night.”

“But you _didn’t_.”

“But I _wanted_ to, gods, I _wanted—_ ”

“Actions speak louder than words.” This was normally used to augment non-verbal spell-casting, but Simon wasn’t trying to cast anything right now, he was just trying to cut him off, to make a point.

Baz shook his head, hunching his shoulders, crossing his arms across his chest and tucking his hands into his armpits. Simon risked sliding his hands down to rest on Baz’s shoulders. He could feel him  trembling – from cold? Nerves? Exhaustion?

 “Baz….” Simon rubbed his bare shoulders, the back of his neck, gently. “You’re just tired, you need some rest….”

“I’m not some three year old!” Baz said. (Whined, really. Simon refrained from pointing this out.)

“And—” Simon felt him shaking, and thought of the night before. “You’re still… _thirsty,_ aren’t you?” Baz turned his head away, wincing, but Simon continued, matter-of-factly. “So what are we going to do about that?” No answer. “What do you usually do?” There’s so much I don’t know, thought Simon.

After a long pause, Baz answered, unwillingly. “Sometimes I… hunt. In the forest.”

“Okay. Maybe I can help.”

“I’d rather you didn’t.”

“Why not?”

Baz spoke slowly, with painful effort. “Because I get… scary. I don’t want you in the line of fire. I don’t want to risk it. It’s dangerous enough for you being around me at all.”

He wanted to argue – _as if I care, as if I haven’t put_ you _in danger over and over again, why shouldn’t I risk the same for you_  – but Simon could see the shadows rearing up in Baz’s eyes again, so he let it go for now, tried distracting him a little. He kept rubbing small circles on Baz’s back, and Baz kept allowing it. Part of him was afraid that if he stopped, if he broke the connection, that Baz would bolt.

“What about magic?”

“What about it? There’s no _cure_ , Snow, even you should know that.”

“That’s not what I meant. ” Simon thought for a minute, about how many spells had both a metaphorical and a literal level to them. What if you started with a glass of water, and…. “What about, I don’t know— _blood is thicker than water,_ or something?”

Baz stared at him for a few seconds, blankly, blinking. “That won’t work.”

“Have you ever tried it?” Simon asked, stubbornly.

Baz just shook his head in what looked very much like bewilderment. “That can’t possibly work.”

“Maybe it will, maybe it won’t.” He tried a little needling. “You’re just annoyed you didn’t think of it first.”

Baz sneered at him, though it was half-hearted. “I didn’t think of it because there’s no way it will work. But we can try tomorrow if you _insist,_ oh nemesis.”

“Fine.” This again? Still? Simon tried to suppress a gust of irritation, but he was tired, too. “I wish—I don’t know what you want from me, Baz. Forgiveness?” He put a finger under Baz’s chin and tipped it up, to look in his face. “You have it, you had it ages ago, you had it before I even knew that I….” He snapped his mouth closed—he couldn’t say it. He was afraid. Even more, afraid that it would scare Baz away.

A flurry of emotion skittered across Baz’s features, and he shuddered and dropped his face into his hands. Simon let his own hands fall to his lap. This fixing thing wasn’t really working out so well, and he was talking way too much. He felt like he must be missing something, somehow. They sat in silence for a minute or two.

“What are you thinking, Baz?”

His voice was muffled, but almost amused. “That I’m a moron.”

“Why?”

Baz dropped his hands, and then reached for one of Simon’s. “Because this, this is what I’ve wanted, forever, and here I am fighting it.”

Fighting it? Just how seriously fighting it? And are you winning? Or losing? And which is which, in your mind? Simon was afraid to ask, so he merely said, “Yeah. So, why would you do a daft thing like that?”

He shrugged. “Seems like the thing to do?”

Simon tugged on his own hair in frustration. “But why?”

Baz puffed out a small sigh, and reached over, stopping Simon from pulling on his hair. “I’ve had time to think about this, you know. All the reasons why this wouldn’t work. How it could distract us in some crucial fight, get us killed. How you might lose friends or allies that you can’t afford. How it’s just… untenable, because what kind of future does a _vampire_ have, anyway?

“But I never thought….” He pushed his fingers through his own hair, and spoke very quietly, looking at his knees. “I’m afraid. I’m afraid you’ll get hurt. I’m afraid _I’ll_ hurt you. Last night….” He shuddered. “I’ve never been that close to hurting someone. You were almost too late.” Simon wanted to protest, but he stopped himself. Baz looked up suddenly into his face. “I’m afraid I won’t be able to hold it off forever, Simon. And if I can’t resist you, and your touch—and I really can’t—then what else won’t I be able to hold back anymore?”

Simon stared. His throat felt thick.

“Oi, your face, Snow.” Baz touched his cheek with one finger, so gently. “You’re going to make me bloody _weep._ ”

Simon shook his head, but still couldn’t speak.

“The point is… this is all probably a terrible idea, and sooner or later you’re going to realize it, Snow, and then….” Baz made a sort of _poof!_ gesture in the air – an imaginary puff of smoke dissipating.

Wait a minute. “ _I’m_ going to…? Why would you think that?”

“Because it’s true.”

“It isn’t….”

Baz didn’t reply, just looked at him pityingly, condescendingly. His eyes were dark, dark, dark – weary and hopeless and resigned.  

_Oh, Baz._ Simon’s chest ached, like his heart, his lungs, might actually crumple. What could he do, what could he say? This really shouldn’t surprise him—he’d seen some of Baz’s dark moods, how fiercely he resisted Simon’s faith in him, how he laughed and made snide remarks and would never listen to a word about how… how wonderful he really was, and why would that suddenly change, just because of a little snogging? And yet it still felt like a knife twisting in his gut to see it. Especially right now.

Well, we’ve got to start somewhere, Simon thought. He said, earnestly, “Please, just try, Baz. Pretend you believe me.” To his own surprise, his voice broke a little at the end, and he felt odd. _Wait, is this… Do I feel hurt? Really?_ He turned his face away and swallowed at the lump in his throat. Trying to sort through the reasons.

“Simon? What…?”

His surprise and hurt seemed to be transmuting into something like anger. “You said I don’t have to prove anything to you, Baz, but you don’t believe me, and I don’t know how to convince you. You sound like you’re giving up already, like you want me to just pretend this never happened.” Simon felt – panicky? yes, panicky at the thought. He was sitting right here, right next to Baz, their knees were touching, and still the thought of going back to his bed, alone, of denying all this… it made his whole body ache, with just the anticipated absence. ( _It’s only been a few hours,_ said a reasonable, warning voice in his head. _Are you really in so deep already?_ Yes, he answered it. And I don’t care.)

“That’s not—”

“You’re saying that _I’m_ going to get tired of _you_ , drop you, abandon you… aren’t you? Isn’t that what you just said?”

“I…” Normally, Simon might have relished the opportunity to confound Baz so thoroughly, might’ve laughed a little at his wide eyes and the fact that _he_ was the speechless one, for once; but he was too frustrated and desperate to enjoy it now.

“Well, sorry to disappoint, but it’s _not_ going to happen, Baz.” Simon paused, trying to calm his angry breathing. “But I don’t know how to make you believe me.” The front of anger – Simon wasn’t stupid, he knew it was mostly a front – cracked a little and he squeezed his eyes shut. I’m _not_ crying, he told himself fiercely. There was only so much humiliation he could take.

Then he felt Baz’s arms around him, pulling him in to his chest, hard. For a moment he wanted to throw him off, to draw away, to hide—but instead he let Baz pull his head against his shoulder, and the touch of his skin did ease that ache of absence. He let out a shuddering sigh and concentrated on stuffing down any actual tears.

“Simon, I’m sorry.” Baz was whispering into Simon’s hair. “I didn’t mean it like that, I swear.”

Then what…? But he couldn’t speak, not quite yet. Simon put his arms around Baz, face still buried in his shoulder, and squeezed him. Let some of the knots in his shoulders loosen, at least a little. He sighed again, and this time, somehow, words breathed out with it.

“I love you, Baz.”

Crap. He froze, felt the blood rush to his cheeks. He hadn’t intended _that_ , not yet. He’d planned to wait, to give it more time. Be a little more sophisticated about it. He didn’t want Baz to think he was being too hasty, or manipulative, or something. He felt oddly… ashamed. Somewhere, deep down, part of him felt like no one, no one could possibly want to hear that from _him._ His voice had been no more than a whisper, and muffled, with his face pressed into Baz’s shoulder. So maybe he didn’t hear properly?

No such luck, of course. Baz made a small, odd sound into the top of Simon’s head, something  between a gasp and a laugh and a sob. He lifted his head, and then Simon’s, with a hand on his face. He stared at him for a long minute, and Simon avoided his eyes, wanting to squirm with embarrassment. Finally Simon started, “Sorry, I—”

“I believe you.”

Simon held his breath for a moment, his eyes snapping up to meet Baz’s, then let it out in a great rush. “You….”

“I believe you.” He leaned forward and kissed Simon, but briefly, solemnly, as if sealing a pact, and then pressed their cheeks together. Simon could feel his breath on his ear. “I believe you, Simon. I believe you.”

Simon felt relief trickling through his limbs. He leaned his forehead against Baz’s shoulder. For his part, Baz kissed his temple, his ear, then nosed at Simon’s cheek until he lifted his face, and kissed his lips again, gently at first, and then more thoroughly, more distractingly…. But Simon pulled back a little. They weren’t quite finished.  

“So what _did_ you mean, then? Before.” He could see Baz wince slightly, but then decide not to try to avoid the question.

“I just meant… that you’re more sensible anyway. And you, you’ve got that tiresome heroism. That when it has to end—” he saw the look on Simon’s face and hastily amended, “all right, if, _if_ it has to end, then you… you always do the thing that has to be done. Where I… I’m too selfish. Too weak. I know I couldn’t bring myself to do it. Even if I know I should.”

"You're _strong_ , Baz." Simon knew this in his bones. The vampire strength was nothing compared to his magical talent, his steely self-control, his fierce, wry determination.

Baz’s voice was soft, and he touched Simon’s face – his cheekbones, his jaw, his nose, his lips – with feather-light fingers, as if he were memorizing his features. “If I were really strong... I would be strong enough to say no, to let you go because it's better for you. Safer.”

_“No.”_ Simon grabbed his wrists, harder than he strictly needed to, pulled his hands down and glared at him, right in the eye. “Be strong enough to try, to make it work. Be strong enough to hold on instead of holding me away, Baz.”

Baz seemed to be holding his breath, but he nodded, and then spoke. “I will. I will try. Because….” A breath, and his grey eyes seemed to pierce right through him. “Because I love you, Simon Oliver Snow.”

Simon’s heart hitched in his chest, as if it had forgotten its job for a second, too preoccupied with this. Even if he already knew, which he did. But still, hearing it, hearing Baz’s voice saying it... it was like his chest filling with sunlight and Christmas and his favorite chocolates, like kissing and the touch of Baz's hands, laughter and music and magic and everything he'd ever cared about rolling up and then expanding inside him suddenly, till he could barely breathe around it, let alone respond.

Baz didn’t seem to require a response. He laid a hand against Simon’s cheek. “I’ve waited and waited to say that to you. I thought maybe I wanted to make a big, theatrical deal out of it. But I’m sick of waiting. Especially now that you’ve stolen my thunder—”

Simon didn't think his ears could get any redder. “You didn’t have to say anything. Just because I’ve got no… no sense of timing….” he mumbled.

Baz smiled, a teasing, joyful, incandescent smile that Simon had never seen before. “But I wanted to. Crowley, I’ve thought of a million different ways I could tell you….”

“You have?”

Baz nodded. “Some of them are quite good. I think… I think I’ll just have to use them all anyway.”

Simon blinked. Baz took Simon’s hands and brought them up to his mouth, kissed the backs of them and the palms and whispered into them, “I love you.”

He laid them down and ran his fingers through Simon’s hair, leaned close to his ear and breathed, “I love you.”

Simon took a gulping breath. Baz smiled and leaned in to kiss him. But just before their lips touched, he stopped, put a finger on Simon’s lips and said, insistently, “I love you, Simon.” Simon made a happy grumbling sound, pushed his hand aside and kissed him till Baz pulled back, laughing.

“Probably not all tonight, though, because I _am_ actually tired,” he said. He collapsed down onto the mattress, looked up at Simon with a long-suffering expression, and mock-whined, “Can’t we go to sleep yet?” As if all this delay were _Simon’s_ idea.

“Yes, love,” Simon said, grinning, and lay down, snuggling into Baz’s arms. For now, he hoped he would never have to move again.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [postscript snippet – posting in honor of karakurakid’s birthday!]


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